But are these the same shirt
It’s hard to tell, they could just be really similar plaid
But it looks like the same shirt
Ok, I don’t think it’s the same shirt (they’re close but not the same), but can we just imagine for a second: Stiles and Jackson sharing clothes.
Stiles and Jackson hate sex, Stiles and Jackson accidentally swapping shirts, Stiles and Jackson sitting in class with the scent of each other all over their clothes, and it’s unbearable because Stiles smells so much like home to Jackson. And Jackson smells so much like sex to Stiles.
It’s Jackson that falls first, and it’s such a surprise, because, seriously? Stiles is a twerp, a pain in Jackson’s fuckin’ neck; how could he fall for such a smart aleck? But Stiles is home. Stiles is unchanging, Stiles is comfortable. And screw that sarcastic little fuck, but he worms his way in deep and he’s got this pair of claws on him, sunken all the way into Jackson’s heart.
Stiles is something that Jackson can call his own.
And Jackson is the most frustrating person in all of Beacon Hills, Stiles knows this for certain. 137%, Jackson Whittemore is the bane of his existence.
Jackson Whittemore is the asshole of his life.
Jackson Whittemore won’t top anyone else there, not ever, not with his stupidly perfect, chiseled jawline. Not with his penis-car Porche. Stiles doesn’t know why he even drives it, it’s not like Jackson has to compensate.
Stiles doesn’t have to compensate, either. Jackson will never tell.
So when their free period comes and Jackson is slamming Stiles up against cold metal in the Boys’ locker room, Stiles doesn’t shout for an adult. Stiles bites his bottom lip as his breath hitches in his throat, Jackson’s swimmer’s physique causing the bottom of Stiles’ stomach to tremble with desire.
"I hate you, Stilinski," Jackson breathes against the shell of Stiles’ ear through clenched teeth, his grip so firm that Stiles thinks he’s going to bruise like a Georgia Peach by the end of the day.
"Screw you too, Jackson," Stiles pants and struggles against Jackson’s grip, but it’s useless. He’s not trying very hard.
And then Jackson kisses Stiles hard on the mouth, swallowing his breath, all tongue and teeth and hormones. Stiles’ stomach does 1,000 somersaults, a choked moan escaping his throat as one hand finds its way to Jackson’s hair, taking a fistful. Like a magnet, he presses his pelvis up against Jackson’s, begging for more contact between their bodies.
Jackson lifts him up, spreading Stiles’ legs to he can nestle between them as he pushes more firmly against the lockers. Inside his jeans he’s rock-hard, bulging, and it’s sort of painful but he ignores it in favor of gripping Stiles’ thigh tight in one hand. Stiles does what’s expected of him, and keeps his legs wrapped around Jackson’s waist. The heat pooling between them is rising quickly, and it’s becoming unbearable.
"Happy to see me today?" Stiles teases as he breaks the kiss, because he can feel Jackson hot and firm against his leg, even through both of their jeans.
Jackson lets out a frustrated growl because he swears to God if Stiles doesn’t stop making comments like that, he’s going to beat the kid to a pulp.
Fuck, Stiles gets him so hard.
No one ever stands up to him, no one ever has the gall to say a damn word. Except maybe for Danny, but Danny has always been with Jackson, and that’s always been their dynamic. Stiles is different. Stiles tests Jackson’s every fucking nerve, every last cell in his body. The more you tell Stiles to stop, the more Stiles pushes.
Stiles drives Jackson wildly out of his mind.
And Stiles knows it.
So they fuck. They fuck and they swear and they call each other names, and then they fuck some more. They fuck until Jackson is exhausted, until he’s got his forehead pressed flush to Stiles’ shoulder blade, the younger boy quivering beneath him. They fuck until they’re all searing skin, pink and raw and stuck together with all their sweat, salted to the bone and shuddering into recovery.
Stile laughs at Jackson. Jackson wants to punch him in the head, but he doesn’t, because even though Stiles is laughing, all Jackson wants to do is kiss him on the mouth again, shut him up with copious amounts of tongue. And when he does, Stiles just grins into it because he alone has tamed the self-proclaimed King, the star of the school, Lacrosse Captain Jackson Whittemore.
Stiles will goad Jackson about it, just to get another kiss. Just to get another fuck.
Jackson will let him, just to get closer. Just to get another moment alone with the boy who will test him until the end of time.
It’s Jackson that falls first. And it’s a surprise.